Page 30 of Darcy
“Glasses off,” Dodger demands.
Arlo sighs but doesn’t protest, snatching the thin frames from his face and staring defiantly back at Dodge, letting the lack of yellowing and dilated pupils speak for itself. Then, for good measure, he shrugs up his sleeves, showcasing all the old puckered hash lines of old scars—and no new wounds. I’ve not seen any nose bleeds either.
If he’s using again, the hallucinations haven’t started back up.
At his lowest point, he picked his own skin so badly he looked like a polka dot canvas, convinced there were insects running around beneath the surface. One memorable time, we even caught him with a knife, trying to dig them out.
“I’m telling the truth.” His resignation hangs in every word, because he’s not expecting us to believe him, despite the evidence.
“So what did Darcy see?” Dodger demands, falling back onto the sofa with a groan.
“Probably Miguel slipping the shit into my pocket at the party.” Arlo tugs his sleeves down, concealing his scars once more. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fuck up our friendship with her.”
“Not your fault,” I grunt.
It’s not. It’s more Slate I’m concerned with, but the bassist is currently too busy pacing to start a new plot to drag her into our life.
“It probably didn’t help that you were practically making out with that groupie last night,” Slate grumbles. “No woman wants it shoved in their face that their casual hookup is casually hooking up with others.”
Typical him, focusing on everything Darcy said except the part where he was involved.
“I wasn’t hooking up with her,” Dodger protests, looking around like he expects any of us to be surprised about the fact he’s been virtually fucking Darcy for years—news flash, he’s not that subtle. “Besides, when Dark—Darcy—and I are together, I don’t fuck anyone else. That woman was all over me, and I wasn’t even there. You know how it is.”
Dodger once confessed that a part of his mind just switches off when women start touching him—a throwback reaction from his past. But I’m willing to bet Darcy won’t appreciate the excuse ofI’m sorry I played tonsil hockey with her, but I wasn’t really mentally there for it, so it doesn’t count.
Arlo silences whatever Slate plans to say next by standing. “I’m going to find her.”
“Find her?” Dodger looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “We agreed: Darcy’s staying out of our shit.”
“Exactly,” I mutter.
Everyone else we care about is tangled in this fucking mess with the cartel. Even if they weren’t an issue, the band doesn’t need another thing to fight over. I don’t care if I have to make her hate me, Iwillkeep Darcy out of it.
“Doesn’t mean I want her thinking I’m just some useless junkie,” Arlo retorts, grabbing his jacket. “Never mind that she already thinks I can’t even clean up after myself. Shit.”
He swipes his card, disappearing into the elevator before anyone can point out that none of us has a clue where Darcy has even gone.
I look back at Slate just in time to catch the barest hint of satisfaction in his gaze.
My hands curl into fists by my side, and I turn away, stalking back into my bedroom with a curse. Arlo may not know it, but I’m willing to bet that the softest member of the band has just made a move that Slate thinks will act in our favour.
My phone rings, and I soften instantly at the familiar tone.
“Wassup, sis?” I ask, without even looking at the caller ID.
“Your nephew would like to show you what he made in kindergarten today,” Destiny answers, smiling. “Turn on video, stupid.”
I sigh, grabbing a shirt and dragging it on before doing as she asks. My youngest sister peers back at me, balancing her toddler on her hip, while being careful of the baby bump that’s just starting to show at her waist. My jaw aches, and I have to work hard to unclench it as the familiar bitterness that comes from seeing my siblings with their families resurfaces.
My two other sisters have settled down on the east coast, but Destiny and her husband Mikey chose to stay near our parents. She’s also the nosiest of the lot, and barely a week goes past without her calling.
“Hey lil’ bit,” I smile into the camera.
“Uncle Ethan!” he cries, waving a piece of paper in the air. I catch a glimpse of glitter and maybe a bright pompom.
I want to grimace at his use of my first name, but I hold the expression back by sheer force of will. While the rest of the world uses my last name, my family stubbornly continues to call me Ethan.
“He can’t see it like that,” Destiny chides, helping Malik to hold his picture up.
